Gemotions

The review sat on the kitchen counter, a pristine white rectangle of pure poison. Chef Antoine ran a hand through his thinning hair, the gesture more a reflex than an attempt at grooming. He hadn't shaved in days; the stubble felt like a gritty reminder of his current state. Outside, the Parisian rain mirrored the gloom settling inside him. He hadn't tasted anything besides instant coffee in nearly a week. His restaurant, 'Le Fleur Delicieux', was supposed to be his triumph. Now, it felt like a tomb.

The words, “over-seasoned,” “lacking in innovation,” and “a pale imitation of true haute cuisine” echoed in his mind, each syllable a fresh wound. Antoine shuffled towards the small, empty dining room. Dust motes danced in the muted sunlight. He felt an overwhelming tiredness, a heavy cloak he couldn't seem to shed. He pulled a chair out at a table, stared at the empty place settings and quietly thought to himself. *Maybe I should just close it all down*.